


Bleating Hearts

by Sath



Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Bad Puns, Canon Era, Gen, a goat, implied Bossuet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-25
Updated: 2014-09-25
Packaged: 2018-02-18 17:14:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2356223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sath/pseuds/Sath
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Joly replaces Bossuet with a goat.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bleating Hearts

**Author's Note:**

  * For [clenster](https://archiveofourown.org/users/clenster/gifts).



Grantaire had breakfasted alone for three days. The first day could be attributed to oversleeping. The second, to forgetfulness. But a third was unconscionable. Even Mme Hucheloup was worried. It was oyster season, and she had no one to eat her oysters. Well, Grantaire had been eating oysters for three, but his consumption couldn’t be maintained - not if he was to keep up with the wine. 

“Do you think they’ve died?” Mme Hucheloup asked, dropping off the last plate of oysters.

“They’re too young for that,” Grantaire said. Though after he thought about it, he considered that Bossuet was probably old enough to be risking death just by living onwards.

“Not the bald one,” Mme Hucheloup replied. Grantaire held himself back from giving her a nod of agreement.

“You know, I’ve lost my taste for oysters. Take these back and pretend they’re fresh for someone else, and charge my meal to M. Laisgles. I’m for the Latin Quarter.”

While Bossuet had no fixed residence, Joly had lived in the Latin Quarter for as long as Grantaire had known him. Moving Joly would be a brobdingnagian effort, because with Joly came his collection of artifacts, talismans, magnets, medical curiosities, and adoring friends, all of which were hard to organize, delicate, and prone to unpleasant smells and leakages.

The porter didn’t want to let Grantaire in. He was clearly new.

“Monsieur already has too many people visiting him,” the porter said, peering at him ghoulishly with his one good eye. The other one had apparently lost a fight with something Satanic. Or syphilis.

“Too many gentlemen callers? Are you accusing my friend of running a flophouse?”

“There’s so many people visiting. It’s tiresome.”

So he simply didn’t want to do his job. A sign of nobility. Grantaire fished in his trousers for some coin, and pulled up a grubby looking sou. “I agree that Joly’s social life can be exhausting. Why, I am only a small part of it and yet our schedule is still rigorous. Have you considered spending some time in a cafe? I recommend it. I will let in any of Joly’s visitors while you enjoy a nice croissant with your coffee.”

The porter grunted and pocketed the coin. “Don’t know where he gets the energy,” he muttered, before shuffling out of Grantaire’s way.

Grantaire gave a few perfunctory knocks before opening the door which Joly never bothered to lock. The apartment looked better than usual - there were no dissolute courtesans sprawled on the floor, nor body parts outside of their jars. It smelled faintly of rosewater. Never before in his friendship with Joly had the apartment been quiet before. Grantaire carefully pushed the bedroom door open, not sure of what he would find. Sardanapalus, perhaps.

The bed was piled high with blankets, and it was writhing. There was no sign of Joly; there was only horror.

Then the horror bleated.

“You’re a fucking goat!” Grantaire exclaimed, pointing at the improbable creature.

Joly finally stuck his head out of the covers, as hungover as Grantaire had ever seen him before. He hardly seemed to register the goat rolling over his bed and chewing on its own beard.

“Where’s Lesgles?” Grantaire said.

“Meaux.”

“He was there last week.”

“It’s dreadfully inconvenient. Here, I have replaced him with a goat.” Joly gestured limply towards the beast.

“Does it perform any of Bossuet’s functions?”

Joly frowned, looking close to tears. But perhaps he also just wanted to vomit. “He sleeps with me, eats my food, and befouls my dwelling.”

“A near match, then. Have you considered shaving the goat?”

“I think I tried, but he wouldn’t sit still.” Joly groped for the goat, turning it this way and that to assess its hair. “Then whom did I shave?” Joly mumbled to himself.

“My friend, you have overindulged in the rites of Bacchus. We must dispose of your night’s debauch.”

Joly held the goat to his chest while the animal made a sound like a tormented hurdy gurdy.

“I refuse to part with Boucuet.”

“You’ll regret Boucuet when you’re sober,” Grantaire replied.

“Impossible. I made a vow to myself to never regret a night’s drinking.”

Grantaire shook his head and advanced on Joly. Boucuet got to his feet, eyeing Grantaire malevolently. A goat’s eyes were capable of no other expression. Joly wiggled towards the other end of the bed, so Grantaire had to reach towards him. But Boucuet intercepted, violently, with his head.

“You bearded bastard,” Grantaire hissed from his newfound orientation on the floor.

 

* * *

 

With great difficulty, Joly and Boucuet the goat were both removed from the apartment. Joly was wearing what was probably his fourth-best jacket, judging by his occasional looks of embarrassment downwards, and was even using his cane for balance. Boucuet was just an asshole.

“My head is wreathed in anguish,” Joly said.

“So’s mine.”

Boucuet strained at his leash, eager to eat some expensive scarves or headbutt a policeman’s leg. Grantaire shoved Joly and Boucuet through the doors of the Musain, looking around hopefully for a goat-savvy savior.

There were students about, but not _his_ students. He caught Louison’s eye, and she inclined her head scornfully towards the back room. Grantaire offered her a silent benison before towing his cargo past her.

Only Enjolras was in the Musain today. His eyes flicked briefly to Grantaire and Joly before returning to his book. He seemed not to noticed the goat.

“Enjolras, have you ever tried to replace a friend with a goat?” Joly asked, slipping with a drunkard’s grace into the chair next to Enjolras.

“I have never been disposed towards chèvalry,” Enjolras replied, delivering the pun with perfect nonchalance.

Joly snorted and looked morosely at Boucuet, who was trying to eat a table leg. “Have you heard from Lègles?”

“He’s been with me all morning; you just missed him. I think he said he was going for oysters.”

Faster than Grantaire could say, “don’t leave me with the goat and the sphere around which my wretched satellite revolves,” Joly was out the door and in pursuit of the missing man from Meaux.

Enjolras coughed. “The goat.”

“Is not mine,” Grantaire said.

“It accompanied you.”

“It belongs to Joly.”

“Yet it remains with you. _Fait accompli_.”

“A plague on lawyers,” Grantaire said. “And upon me. I have neither the means nor inclination to take care of a goat. If I take it, I will sell it to a butcher.”

The goat bleated mournfully. Enjolras put down his book and scratched under its chin. “It’s the way of most farm animals. You should take him to a man named Jacquet for a fair price.”

The goat closed its eyes in pleasure, leaning against Enjolras’s thighs. Grantaire groaned in frustration. “He wants to stay with you. You’ve got the room for him.”

“It would be absurd for me to keep a goat.”

Nevertheless, Enjolras and the goat seemed deeply simpatico. At last, Enjolras tucked a wayward curl behind his ears and gathered the goat into his arms.

“I will name him Robesbiêrre.”

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sorry about approximately zero of the puns. Happy belated birthday, Clenster!


End file.
